


A Family Reunion

by caesthetics



Category: Original Work
Genre: "Just like your mother" comparisons, Age Difference, Anal Sex, But I won't tag it until then, Captivity, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, Eventually there will be stockholm syndrome, Father/Son Incest, Fingerfucking, First Time Bottoming, Grinding, Incest, Kidnapping, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Revenge Sex, Teenaged victim, god this is so indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesthetics/pseuds/caesthetics
Summary: Ping Jiang has never met his dad, and Mom's never mentioned much about him. It's nothing he really lingers on... and for good reason, as he'll soon find out.Or, more bluntly put: Delinquent son meets his estranged convict father. Stockholm syndrome ensues.
Relationships: Convict/The teenaged son he kidnaps because his wife pissed him off, Estranged Father/Delinquent Son
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	A Family Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> In the midst of moving, so I apologize for not updating my other fics. Uploading this one so all my fics are on AO3. Please mind the tags and enjoy!

\---

Most days, Ping's routine is simple: there's a sugarcane drink that he likes and a neighbor he doesn't. He'll buy the former and kick the latter's sign or something just as obnoxious— and when he’s satisfied, he'll resume his position, squat out front with the goods and his phone. Old, jobless aunties, their kids, their kids' kids, depending on the season. They come and go like fish on a linoleum river, making it an easy job for a good-for-nothing son.

Ping scrolls idly, alternating between anime, a kung-fu instructional and his texts with Shan.

They sold herbs and dried fruit and the various heirlooms and talismans he’ll hawk for their age and rarity, whatever it’ll take to get his grandparents off his back for all their talk about working to earn his keep.

Today starts out weird though, for how the stand’s more in a disarray than how Ping remembers leaving it. And, it isn’t like he cares that much for his job; but, he isn’t so stupid as to not notice a cigarette in the trash when neither he nor Mom smokes— or, that some of the lucky cats have been moved just enough that even Ping’ll be bothered enough to check the register. It’s an alright area; just a few blocks short of the seediest part of an otherwise clean city, and an obvious far-cry from the yakuza dramas Mom likes watching. Ping himself is a poor college student with no money or real prospects beyond maybe an associate’s in business. He’d told Shan that he's probably more trouble than he's worth.

“Been fending myself for all these years, after all.”

Shan had laughed at that, as if his weekly lessons with sifu really meant something when he’s looking down the barrel of a gun.

Ping’d counted the bills and concluded that there’s nothing missing— a landlord’s inspection, probably. He recalls a poster about a possible exterminator to address the rat problem. He’d also pulled up a Wikipedia article to show Shan that the most that’s ever happened around these parts was a burglar that only made it past the parking lot of some rich person’s department store. Cuffed and jailed, and the talk of the town for months for how little else happens here.

But, it gets even weirder when the message comes through over WhatsApp, right as he waves off the knot in his stomach. 

And, when he responds "y," it takes 5 minutes for the message "don't ask come home" to come up over his phone.

\--

Mom doesn't text unless she needs something: cabbages, melons, squashes half-off, another bag of peanuts for her snacking. He's at the strip mall and the market's on the way home. Least he can do and all. Ping closes up shop, counting the bills and corralling the little yapping toy dogs up front. The line of stuffed animals are shoved back into a laundry net and he locks up the valuables and gate—a little click followed by a larger shutter of metal.

Ping thinks to what Mom's got herself worked up over. Maybe it’s his grades, having gotten to the mail before he can intercept it. Maybe it’s Grandma and Grandpa, ready to finally kick them out this time.

Something's on the stove— duck and plum sauce— so it must've been something worthwhile. He kicks off his shoes and throws his bags aside, ready to make a joke about keeping up appearances and treating the guest better than her own son when he's stopped, dead in his tracks.

Ping's only seen the other man in photographs. Tall and dark-skinned with deep-set eyes and prominent cheekbones. His brow line is a severe, split by a cut that connects his forehead to his ear. Mom's smile is thin as she tends to dinner, her eyes soft and pleading as Ping carefully enters the threshold. He must have interrupted a conversation.

"Ping. Son… Do you know who this is?"

"…Ba…?"

\--

The old man's slung his arm behind his Mom's chair, never minding the tenseness of their impromptu family reunion. It's nothing like the movies because Ping isn't stupid. Dad's a low-life thug and he's an apple that doesn't fall far from the tree. Grandma, Grandpa— they know this and eat in silence, the man ignoring their fury for having invited himself over. It's the same kind of pose Ping'll take when he's feeling extra cheeky, ignoring their cues to help himself to the good parts of the meal.

Not that the confirmation makes it any easier.

His mom's flushed and unable to lift her gaze from her bowl. They'd touch on the topic before, but only to the degree that Ping knows he should be there for his mom even if he hasn't gotten all the details.

"Where is he going to stay?" Grandma's eyes narrow, her glance pointed to both Ping and his dad.

He's indignant. Look, it isn't his fault this guy’s gone and come back out of nowhere. Ping opens his mouth—

"Oi, leave the boy outta this one, ok? Jeez. Have some sympathy, here."

and closes it just as quickly.

Mom usually just takes it. Shame overtakes pride like a snuff to a flame. It’s what Grandma loved to say whenever she really wanted Mom to regret her mistake of a marriage and son. Ping isn't used to that, someone speaking on his behalf. He blinks dumbly, taking another piece of duck for himself.

"I just need a place to stay… I'll be in and out before you know it.

And I'll take 'em with me if they're willing. That's what you want, right?"

"Yun. We'll talk about this later. Let's just eat."

The man flashes a smile and a wink when Ping glances in his direction, and Ping isn't sure why it's got him flustered like a dog thrown its first bone. He's a guy sharing an inside joke with his father, no big deal.

So he returns the smirk, chewing quietly on the fat and rice.

\--

Ping crouches in the doorway as his Mom and Dad speak, the conversation half in Mando, half in English. Mom's voice is hushed to keep the rest of the house from waking. "I don't know how you found us," she says. "But, did you really think it'd be that easy? That you could come back out of nowhere and it'd all be fine?"

Dad returns it with the same breezy tone as the one he'd taken over dinner. They weren't kidding when they'd said he is so much like him and it's surreal, like looking into a vision of the future. He says, "Why? You want it to be hard or something?" A quick check of the phone-- 1:14 AM-- before Ping pockets it, hiding the brief flash of light. In the next room over, his grandparents sleep, the sound of their snoring reverberating through their tiny house.

"Yun. What are you even going to do? How many times will you leave me before you're satisfied?"

"I'm serious this time. Look. Wen.

I've changed— it's been 12 years. Only natural, right?"

"Twelve years, alone. _Here._ With _your_ son. You expect me to forgive you for that? I told you; I told you it wasn't safe. You swore on your mother's grave that you'd quit."

" _Our_ son, you mean?"

Ping muffles his breathing through his sleeve, catching the hitch at his mention.

"Damn good job you've been doing with him, huh? Couldn't let me outta your head. You see me when you look at him, and it's no wonder he probably hates you."

"Shut up."

"Frigid bitch."

" _Get out_ "

" _And fuck you too_."

The man pulls his jacket from the couch, throwing it over his shoulder he saunters out past Ping's hiding place, annoyance clear in his swagger. The TV flashes on from behind him, Mom returning to her nest of blankets.

A pause.

"Not very subtle, are you, kid?" he mumbles beneath the sound of sleep, the opening number to another of mom's yakuza dramas. Ping shakes his head. He's been feeling younger this evening than he has in years and he hates it. Hates that this is the first impression his Dad has of him.

The man tilts his head, motioning him forward. "Wasn't an accusation. Let's talk. Man-to-man."

\--

Dad throws his jacket over him-- heavy and warm and smelling like musk and smoke. It makes him wonder if he'll get to be that tall and that stacked, if maybe those lessons with sifu could incorporate less cardio and stretches and more muscle work. He'd only seen his cousins and uncles for a point of contrast, varying shades of shy and nerdy with bodies to match. Maybe things are different this side of the family. But, before he could ask, the old man speaks first.

"How old are you now? 15? 16?"

"19."

"Yeesh, way to make an old man feel older. Your mom put you through school?"

"Yeah. Nothing special though."

"Ha! 'course she did. She's always told me about wanting to go back some day. It's so much like her, having you go instead."

Ping's only ever seen her sad or disappointed when she isn't watching TV. It's weird to think of her as someone who'd wanted anything aside from his absence.

"…Mom's like that?"

"Yeah. Study this, study that." Dad kicks a rock across the neighborhood, watches it skip over the cracked asphalt. "It's like she'd forgotten how we even met."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The picture Dad paints is stupid in its sentimentality, never-minding the fight that'd just taken place hours ago. He describes school in China-- the weather, the uniforms, the river and the wire fence that separates the road from the grassland next to it. Mom'd leaned beside him, back to him, way past the first bell when everyone else had receded from the main courtyard and into their seats. He liked what he could see of her face, the way she wore her skirt longer than the other girls

…as if that'd do anything to cover for those legs.

Ping makes a face. Dad laughs, throwing his weight over his shoulders.

"She picks something out from the gutter, expecting it to be a diamond. Is what I’m saying."

“You’re telling me.”

The conversation gets easy from there. Ping tells him about a girl he'd seen back in high school, stuff his mom's never asked about, that even his friends don't know about him. Ping isn't used to this either, flushed and caught up in the excitement of someone interested in hearing him out. Dad returns his stories for more, how he had a friend just like Shan and how he’s been looking for him since coming to the states. He tells Ping even more about Mom than Mom has ever bothered, how she could fight just as good as any man he’s known, but insisted on flat-bottomed loafers that fucked with her footing.

The sky's turned purple to red and gold all the while, a yawn eventually punctuating Ping's thoughts on his cousins from her side of the family.

"Get some rest," Dad answers.

Ping makes to return the jacket. He shakes his head. "Keep it. I'll look for you later. Gotta settle some things first."

\--

Ping's at the shop when the door's bell rings. He doesn't look-up from his phone, half-expecting that weird regular to have returned early to reassess the stock.

"Cute dump they have you working."

"…Ba…? How did you…?"

"Told ya so."

Dad's also drinking a sugarcane drink, leisurely looking over the little shed. The stuffed toys back on display, the stacks of incense, the assorted Buddhas and shrines lined-up beside the racks and racks of jade and gold and marble knick-knacks. Dad examines a little elephant figurine, rolling it between his fingers before putting it back down, "You off soon?"

"Uh…" The cat clock strikes 3:15 and he isn't.

"Heh. Boring as your mother."

"H-hey."

"It's good." The hand returns over his head, tousling his hair. "Better an honest man than a dishonest one. Learned that lesson the hard way."

In his absence, Dad's got a place, a ride and a job, the details of which are unclear. And, it looks suspicious when only been a couple of weeks, he's well-aware. But, he'd built-up a reputation for his fighting back in the day and some buddies have been more than happy to give him some odd jobs as a bouncer or a bodyguard here and there. Ping wants to believe him, that his grandparents have been treating him and his mom like shit for no real reason. He wants to believe the sentence was entirely a mistake or completely made-up, and that he could talk to his dad no problem because that's how family works, even after having never met him before in his life but.

Three-hundred dollars missing over the past week. Google is free and Ping isn’t stupid.

He takes out his phone to send his Mom a text… but quickly tucks it away when Dad glances over, throwing an arm over his shoulder.

\--

They spend the day driving around Malibu. Ping's more careful as to the details he's giving out, doesn't mention the back-alley dojo as they drive past it, withholds anything specific like names of people or places. The ocean glitters white as the sun dances over it, and he notices how the old man's being just as vague as he has been this entire time. Jail sucks for the food and the smell, convicts making it a habit of storing their shit in shampoo bottles to pink eye a newcomer or guard. But, he doesn't say what's made him change. Nothing about how he'd kept in contact with those buddies to get this car, that job, the apartment he insists on showing him.

That's the thing, Ping realizes. When people talk about their pasts, it's easy to change the narrative to suit their present selves. He'd only let down his guard because he has enough of a heart to want to believe him.

Now Ping only wants to remain so boring that he loses interest and drives him back home.

The car parks, tire crunching over grout and they're facing an apartment complex tucked away from the main street. It looks more like a motel than any place a person who wasn't an addict would live. Dad rolls his shoulder, motioning him "this way."

The elevator creaks beneath their feet, shuttering with a heave before it makes its stop. The inside's no better than the outside, the smell of cough medicine and moth balls dizzyingly pungent.

"Nice, isn't it?"

"What were you saying, about the shop being a dump?"

"Hey, hey. you're talking like your mom all over again. c'mon."

The paneling's peeled around the edges at the door they've stopped at, and Dad has to lift it a bit to open it. The outline of the number "218" is barely visible over the peep hole.

"Not bad, right?"

Ping glances around. The living room's completely carpeted with a flat screen flanked by two DVD towers. A mattress sits in place of a couch and the sheets are crumpled into a pile beside some magazines and a suit case… and it's even smaller than Shan's place with just half a kitchenette and a bathroom right across from it. There aren't even any windows either.

"I mean… it's kinda small, if you're thinking of moving us here."

Dad walks past him, seating himself on the mattress. He pushes some laundry aside and motions Ping to join him. The mattress cover crackles from the plastic fill.

"Listen, kid. We all start somewhere, right? Least it's my place and not her parents.'"

Ping shakes his head.

"Yeah but…" he chooses his words carefully. "I don't know. I think I should go."

"…

…

…You find something about me? Huh?"

Ping's heart skips a beat. The tone's completely shifted in spite the unchanged expression.

"N-no. It's. Mom. She’s going to wonder where I am and I haven't told her yet, so…"

"Funny that," Dad says. "Wasn't planning on askin’ her permission."

—

Faster than he can think, the old man's got him straddled to his bed, the springs creaking from beneath their weight. Ping thrashes— uselessly— as the other man takes a moment to look him over. "It's a good thing you're so cute," he says, taking his wrists and pulling them above his head. "I don't know what I would've done if you'd taken after me more than her."

He places a kiss under Ping's jawline, running his tongue over where he sucks. Ping twitches from disgust and that mouth moves up playfully to meet his lips. He turns his head. His father corrects him, squeezing his jaw until it hurts too much to keep it shut. Their kiss is slow, hot and indulgent, the man grinding his hips as Ping blinks back the tears and shakes his head. "You ever fucked that girl? Meilan?"

"…"

A slap; Ping's cheek glows hot from the impact.

He nods.

"Ha. Atta boy.

…That's my son." A hand moves over his crotch, kneading it through the fabric and Ping hates it, hates how hard he's gotten from just a little touching. "A stud, just like his old man." His thumb goes over the elastic, edging the fabric down. The squeeze starts from the base and then makes itself down to the tip, the man grinning as Ping writhes to keep himself from arching into his hand.

"How bout Shan? Ever do it with him?"

"N-no… W-what are you—"

"Just girls then, huh? Precious."

The grip tightens, quick pulses to get Ping hot and breathy. His other hand moves up the boy's shirt, runs it over his chest and down his sides. "I'll make you as good a fuck as your mother.

She'll be sorry then… Won't she?"

He withdraws for something from his bag, bringing Ping into his lap before he can think to worm his way out of his hold. The friction makes Ping jolt, his cock rubbing up against the other man's clothes, his legs spread wide around his hips. A hand is brought to the other man's crotch, barely contained by the zipper of his pants. And, the grinding returns, Ping locked close by the small of his back, little a-ah's ghosting from his mouth and into the silent room.

"Keep it going," the man whispers, "Let your old man know how much you want this."

Ping buries his head into the man's shoulder, fear and instinct overcoming pride. He's close, distracted by his dad's smell, the denim against his skin and

Ping doesn't realize the finger, slicked and greasy, prodding at his ass until it curls into him. The trance breaks… but when he moves from it, he only brings himself closer to his father.

"Easy," he says. His head's brought up, a thick tongue slipping past his lips. The grip tightens, his scalp stinging at all ends. "Didn't say you could stop."

He relents as Ping continues, hips rocking themselves over his dad's. Another finger joins the second, moving in time to his movements, shy and virginal. It has him seeing stars eventually with how deep it reaches, the way Dad's stubble brushes over his chin.

"There you are."

He leans the boy over before Ping finds his release, pressing him back down onto the mattress. The light catches the sides of Dad’s face, giving it a different, almost-foreign character. "You liked that didn't you?" The old man undoes his pants, barely able to contain his own excitement, hard and ready to take him. He drags Ping to him, thighs over his, as he looks down on his son.

“Spitting image,” he says, stroking them. “Bet you’d look real good in a skirt too.”

Ping averts his eyes. The tears push back over their corners, Ping focusing his attention on anything but him, this moment, the way Dad savors the slow push in. It's nothing like the times he's spent with Meilan or Jenny, eager and handsy, Ping taking the lead and making it good for everyone. Instead, the other man focuses his attention solely on Ping— how just the head of his cock overwhelms him, making him no better than that "that sad bitch of a mother." He slows his breathing to just take it, but it's so much that he chokes on a sob instead.

Their hips meet and Dad gives a long exhale, eyes half-lidded as he thumbs little circles at his waist.

His face is turned to meet the old man’s face, the same smirk over dinner to an expression of shock that intermingles with shame and arousal.

Dad fucks him slow, reliving a memory that Ping can’t look in the eye either. When he’s gone soft from the pain, tensing instead of laxing for the old man the way he wants, a large hand wraps around his cock, teasing the underside of its tip. He trembles from the shock of pleasure, a bolt that runs from his spine to the curl of his toes. “Good boy…” the old man croons. “Just like that.”

The thrusts mount as Ping lays slack beneath him, panicked but unthinking as the slap of skin to skin reverberates throughout the room.

"Say 'Please, Yun.'" he mumbles.

"P-Please… Y-a-ah…"

"Good… Good…"

\--

Ping's face burns as he cums, body sore and twitching in the aftermath of their joining. Blearily, he watches his father finish, rutting into him, shallowly, to keep from spilling. And they stay like that, even after he’s done… Dad lost in the afterglow of his conquest, Ping, forlorn and stretched-out, unable to move past his shock.

Dad smirks, gathering him into his arms. He nuzzles his face into Ping's neck, takes his opportunity to hold him tight, as if never to let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Ping is one of my OCs and this is the worst AU I could suffice off this discord prompt:
> 
> _ping and his dad, tearful but betrayed reunion (i’m crying but my dick is hard)_
> 
> I intended this as a one-shot, but I'll revisit this as I'm inclined to write more daddykink (or if I get any interest in a continuation over my other fics). Thanks for reading!


End file.
